Burn Marks
by shakespeare-lozza
Summary: Their relationship is a struggle for power. Drawn together and ripped to shreds by a burning desire, two enemies are caught up in a surprising battle of wills, which only succeeds in prompting the question; who is the captor and who is the captive?


_Written for the 'Surprise Challenge'_

* * *

I'd always believed that one thing that you could truly rely on, was the coming of darkness.

Something heady and cloying, sweet earthiness infusing the breeze of the unseen night.

I'd always drawn a twisted comfort from such a misguided sense of protection, security in the clock-work nature of regularity, constancy in my world of ever-lasting shadow.

I was always taught that light was the enemy.

It presented hope in a place where none should have existed.

It felt strange and foreign.

Illogical and absurd.

It burned me.

As a creature of the night, it burned me.

- -

Blackness ensued.

The shuffling of robes. The hiss of heat on broken glass. The lingering smell of smoke.

Hermione's lips felt cracked under the wary pressure of her tongue, the metallic tang of blood tasted sharp even to her dulled senses.

She thought she'd been irreparably blinded.

However she released a heartfelt sigh of relief when she felt a smooth band of material bound tightly about her face. Suddenly she sensed the cease of all movement in the chamber, the silence drawing a cold sweat from her brow. This clinical simulation of peace shook her to the core, it was far too quiet and in the depths of her mind she imagined him watching her…

She squirmed anxiously in her seat, horrified to learn her hands were roped together on her lap in a vice-like grip. She tried to escape, only to find her ankles had been similarly trussed to the legs of the heavy wooden chair on which she now unwillingly reclined. The whole set-up was most likely bewitched. There was no where to go. She consciously felt for her wand that would have pressed reassuringly against her outer thigh in any other circumstance. Nothing.

"Looking for something, Granger?"

That voice.

That smooth droll hit her like a slap to the face.

She felt a cool palm caress the underside of her cheek, coming to cock her chin upwards. She could feel the intensity of his gaze, even if she could not see it. And it burned like hellfire.

She turned her face away in disgust, "Don't," a throaty rasp breaking from the hollow of her chest, "Don't touch me like that."

She heard a slow intake of breath.

"Remove my blindfold."

A sharp bark of laughter erupted from the gloom, "Granger, I hardly think that you are in any position to be making demands."

Suddenly, rough fingers gouged into the soft flesh of her neck, drawing a gasp of pain from Hermione's already exhausted form. She didn't even try to struggle. He'd proved his point.

Hermione felt the cloth over her eyes dampen, consciously attempting to stunt the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. However she couldn't control the small cry that burst from her lips as a hand edged with foreboding purpose up the inner flesh of her leg.

"Oh, don't cry Mudblood," the voice murmured mockingly, "it always hurts me more when you cry."

Hermione started, physically pushing the chair backwards with all her might. His hand slipped from her thigh, hot breaths born of fear and exertion pouring from her lungs.

There was a moment of silence.

The calm before the storm.

Then suddenly it came.

A hand looped violently around the nape of her neck, his lips crashing down upon hers.

Bruising.

Punishing.

Hermione writhed beneath his grasp, her teeth biting into the soft seams of his lips.

He relinquished her with an oath, stumbling away he cursed her beneath his breath.

Quietly she revelled in the taste of his blood.

"Now please take off my blindfold." Hermione's voice was unwavering, a surge of new-found confidence giving her strength of will. She might have been blind and demobilised, but at the end of the day, she was Hermione Granger and would go down with a fight.

She heard the echoing taps of boots upon stone, coming closer… and closer…

In an instant, light filtered harshly into her vision. A now irritated voice, albeit still laced with arrogance, sounded from just behind her, "See, all you had to do was be polite about it." She blinked wide-eyed like a new-born owl, her gaze slowly adjusting to the glow of a single candle upon a head of silver-blond hair.

She hadn't needed to see who it was. She'd just known.

"Malfoy, you are a real bastard, you know that?"

"Surprised to see me Granger?" her remarked sarcastically, a smirk suffusing his face.

A dilapidated wooden side-table sat in the centre of the dungeon-like room, on it sat merely the spluttering candle and a glittering, slightly cracked crystal ashtray.

Two cigarette stubs were ground relentlessly into the glassy surface, tiny specks of ash dotting the table top like the black plague. Malfoy reached into the pocket of his robes, drawing out a long thin stick of white. He playfully rolled the cigarette between his slim, pale fingers, in a way that shot sick threads of desire to Hermione's core. She mentally shook herself. This was wrong. He was ill, disturbed. However that didn't stunt the flush that heated her cheeks when he lit up on the nearby candle, drawing smoke into his lungs only to breathe out small, hypnotic circles.

Suddenly he caught her eye, and for some reason she found it impossible to look away. He was beautiful. Absolutely, heart-stoppingly beautiful. His lithe grace was epitomised by the artful cords of lean muscle that bunched beneath his shirt, his clothing falling over his form with messy ease.

He was the Prince of Darkness.

Cruel and ruthless.

He always got what he wanted.

Only a fool would stand fast against him.

"Why do you deny me?" He murmered quietly.

Hermione looked at Malfoy, his grey stormy eyes glistening with purpose.

Hermione pursed her lips in silence.

Malfoy suddenly looked agitated, his loose hand funnelling through his hair as he paced the room, his cigarette dangling at his side. Suddenly he stopped right in front of her, his face taking on a wistful quality, as if he were seeing straight through her.

"You know I want you." He started, "I can see it in your eyes, you know it."

Hermione's eyes turned downcast.

His voice sounded tortured, "You know how much you make me burn."

Before she could stop it, her hand was clamped tight between her thigh and his arm. Her palm faced upwards on her lap, as his cigarette loomed menacingly over her vulnerable flesh.

Hermione whispered urgently, "No. Please don't do this."

A look of anguish crossed his face, but it was gone so quickly that one might have thought they'd imagined it. Hermione had always thought he'd just wanted to dominate her, break her spirit. But now she didn't know what to think.

He looked at her intently, "You whimper, little girl…", consideration washing over his aristocratic features, "You play with fire and yet you fear getting burnt… You toy with me. I have kidnapped you, stolen you away from your friends and strapped you to a chair. By all means, you should be at my mercy… and yet…"

His voice drifted into the dark abyss of sentences unfinished, as his lips brushed gently across hers.

Hermione's eyes remained firmly open, a flutter of awareness catching in her chest as she watched Malfoy's eyelids open drowsily as if awaking from a trance.

"And yet…" He repeated, "it is you who holds me prone."

He reached over to brush a lock of hair from her eyes as she jerked back defensively.

"Why me, you witch?" he whispered, "Why do you set my body afire? It's just lust. I'm sure its just lust. Easily overcome."

It was almost as if he were convincing himself.

Nervously she licked her lips.

The tiny action caught his eye, and almost beyond his volition, he kissed her.

Hermione felt her body capitulate, leaning in to his warmth.

He broke away abruptly, his breaths coming short and fast.

With one deft movement, he slid the unburnt end of the cigarette between the fingers of her bound hands, only to swiftly force her to burn the flesh of his own palm.

Hermione recoiled in horror in what he'd made her do, throwing the cigarette aside she fingered the small dark oval marring the centre of his otherwise spotless hand.

He didn't even flinch.

His eyes remained as cold as diamonds, and yet beneath that initial reflection, Hermione could still see hints of a fiery desire raging deep within him.

His silky voice only seemed to mock himself, "That isn't even a sliver of what you do to me."


End file.
